


Cold And Comfort

by InNovaFertAnimus



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 19:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9008839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InNovaFertAnimus/pseuds/InNovaFertAnimus
Summary: He knows he should have waited for backup but he couldn’t. It shouldn’t even take an hour for Waverly’s private army to storm the gates, but sitting on his heels when he knows both where they hold Illya and how to get in there has been unbearable. Gaby is going to skin him alive for that when she gets out of the hospital, or maybe she won’t even wait that long.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glorious_spoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/gifts).



> Happy Holidays glorious_spoon! I hope you like this :)
> 
> Thanks to my awesome beta Ursa_Es!

Napoleon always thought that Illya at his core is too soft for this business. Although he might deny it, he cares too much. It’s obvious in the careful way he touches them, it’s written on his face when they get hurt, it’s bleeding from his pores in rage and violence and despair. He cares and it makes him vulnerable. Vulnerable enough to fold, when he’s faced with someone threatening their lives. Napoleon still remembers the feeling of Gaby’s blood running through his fingers as he tries to stop her from bleeding out, the cold metal of the gun pressed against his temple. Illya looked at them with rage and despair and folded. 

He knows he should have waited for backup but he couldn’t. It shouldn’t even take an hour for Waverly’s private army to storm the gates, but sitting on his heels when he knows both where they hold Illya and how to get in there has been unbearable. Gaby is going to skin him alive for that when she gets out of the hospital, or maybe she won’t even wait that long. 

He rounds a corner and shoots the two guards. He doesn’t even pause to think about it and he stopped feeling remorse for killing terrorists and their likes years ago. He snatches their guns and the keyring from the belt of the guard’s body on his right and unlocks the heavy steel door they are guarding. It takes only a few extra seconds to drag the bodies in with him to hide them. So far he didn’t leave any traces and he would like it to stay this way until Waverly comes for them.

He relocks the door from the inside immediately and leaves the key lodged inside its hole. Only after he’s moved the cabinet in front of it as well, he dares to turn around. 

The room he’s in looks like half hospital, half butcher shop. There are tiles on the walls and a drain in the floor. Tools ranging from scalpels to simple hammers are scattered over the table right next to the door. Napoleon almost throws up, his mind filling with all the possibilities of what they could have done to Illya. Still there is no sign of the Russian. With a frown Napoleon walks around the room, one hand skimming on the wall, trying to find a hidden door or anything really. Illya definitely was being held here, Napoleon doesn’t believe their snitch was lying. This is where they hold every captured enemy and Peril isn’t someone you can easily confuse with anyone else. Getting Illya to spill KGB intelligence is impossible, of that Napoleon is sure, so they can’t already be finished with him. The only reason for him getting moved out of here is him being dead and to Napoleon, this is not an option. 

Napoleon’s stomach sinks as he rounds the room without finding anything. He lets out a deep breath and leans back against the wall, letting his eyes wander over everything again. Nothing on the walls, no other door than the one he came through. That only leaves the floor. His gaze returns to the drain. Fishing his flashlight out of his pocket, he walks over to it and crouches down. The light is bright enough to see that there is more space below than just pipes. 

The trapdoor is hidden well enough that one cannot simply stumble over it. He takes a deep breath and pries it open.

Light falls in from where Napoleon lifted the cover, the rest of the revealed room is dark. Napoleon keeps his flashlight in his hand as he descends the stairs. To his surprise the floor is covered in water. With the last step the water rises to his knees. It’s ice cold.

With a silent curse he raises the flashlight. “Illya?”

The water quivers slightly to his left. He points his flashlight to the source of it. His breath catches in his throat.

Illya is kneeling a few feet away from him, his arms cuffed behind his back and forced up high by the chain connected to the wall. He’s slumped over, his face almost touching the surface of the water, probably to relieve the strain of his shoulders. His shirt is in shreds and every bit of skin Napoleon can see is a mesh of bruises and cuts. 

All caution thrown to the wind Napoleon runs over to him, the water sloshing around his legs. Without thinking he sinks to his knees in front of Illya, lifting his head gently. The cold bites as he submerges himself to his chest, but he doesn’t care. Illya tries to shy away from the contact, but doesn’t quite manage. His face doesn’t look any better, now that Napoleon is closer to see, his lower lip split, a cut in his brow and half of his face turned purple from all the bruising. Napoleon shushes him, keeping his touch gentle. Illya’s skin is icy. 

“It’s just me, Solo.”

For a moment Illya stops, only to struggle harder. 

“Calm down, I’m go-“

“Must leave.”

Napoleon clamps his flashlight under his arm as reaches for his lock picks, unwilling to let go of Illya yet. “Yes, we must leave, let me-“

Illya shakes his head violently, pulling the chain tight with his movement. “No, _you_ must leave.”

With a frown Napoleon studies the lock that holds Illya’s wrists. Two keyholes and from the way it’s attached to the chain, he will need to open both of them to free Illya. “What are you talking about?”

His partner doesn’t get the chance to answer.

The shock comes without warning, making his muscles cramp instantly, knocking the breath out of him. The water engulfs him as he crumples. For a moment he’s unable to move, his muscles completely locked until his survival instinct kicks in. He breaches the surface, gasping for air.

His flashlight fell into the water, flickering once before going out. Napoleon tries to calm his breathing, trying to shake off the feeling of electricity running through him and the accompanying memories. He doesn’t have the time for this now.

The light falling in from the open trapdoor is just enough for him to make out Illya’s pale skin standing out against the dark. His head is raised, the muscles of his neck and shoulders trembling with the effort.

“You must get out of the water, please. Your heart.”

Napoleon needs a second to collect himself. Illya has been held and tortured for days and now he worries about _Napoleon’s_ wellbeing. How can anyone care so much about others and so little about himself? It just doesn’t make sense to Napoleon. He shakes his head.

“Not without you. How much time until the next?”

Illya’s eyes are still pleading with him to leave, but he seems to understand that Napoleon won’t give in. “Not regular.”

Napoleon nods. So he will just hurry and hope for the best. He doesn't bother to fish for the lockpick he dropped and pulls out another one, quickly running his fingers over it to feel if it’s the right shape in the darkness. 

Moving closer to his partner, he wraps one arm around him to brace his chest against his, so he can take his weight once the cuffs are unlocked. It’s worrying really, that Illya doesn’t protest and lets his head drop on Napoleon’s shoulder instead. With his other hand he reaches up to the lock. It takes a few tries to find the keyhole, but once he does it takes barely a second for the cuff to open. Illya’s left arm drops instantly, his pained gasp muffled against Napoleon’s shoulder. Napoleon changes sides, careful not to let Illya slip. Slowly the cold gets to Napoleon, his fingers starting to tremble. He tries not to think too hard about why Illya doesn’t seem to notice the cold anymore.

With the release of the second lock, Illya falls forward, Napoleon’s second arm closing around him immediately to catch him. He can feel Illya’s ragged breaths against him, as he runs his fingers softly up and down his back. “Can you stand up?”

The next shock hits them both by surprise, but it’s not as bad as the last one, probably they are keeping the voltage irregular as well. Somehow Napoleon manages to keep them upright through it, although he can’t help his arms from tightening around Illya, squeezing a small pained sound out of him.

Napoleon swallows against the trembling in his voice. “Illya? Can you stand up?” 

A small headshake against his shoulder, his arms still hanging useless at his sides. Now that they are where they are supposed to be, Napoleon can see the unnatural shape and the swelling. 

“Your shoulders are dislocated. What else?”

“Hip, right side.”

Napoleon curses under his breath. He can deal with the shoulders, but not this. And Illya has been kneeling all this time, the freezing water the only thing numbing his pain. 

“Are your legs chained down as well?”

Another headshake. Napoleon hums

“I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t give Illya warning before ducking under the surface and pulling Illya over his shoulder. Illya’s scream of pain as his leg gets jostled is loud enough to hear over the water pouring over him as Napoleon stands up. Napoleon hates that he doesn’t have the time nor the strength to be as gentle as he wants to be with Illya feeling like a deadweight over his shoulder. Still, he can’t afford to slow down as he moves towards the stairs, Illya’s moans of pain the only sound filling his ears. 

They make it to the steps before the next shock can hit them. Carrying Illya up the stairs with both of their clothes completely soaked makes his legs shake with effort, but he manages somehow without falling back down.

When they reached the room above, Napoleon carefully lowers Illya down against the wall furthest away from the door. It probably still hurts like hell, but Illya stays silent, letting his head fall back against the wall with his eyes squeezed shut. Now in the light the bruises and cuts look even worse. Their clothes are still wet and cold, but getting Illya out of them is probably just short of impossible with his injuries. There is nothing they could use as a blanket other than the jackets the dead guards are still wearing. Napoleon doesn’t hesitate to strip them off their previous owners. 

When he returns to his partner, Illya slipped down a little and now struggles to sit up again. Napoleon rushes back over to him.

“Let me help.” 

Illya looks up to him, utter exhaustion in his eyes. It stings worse than the cold water did. Napoleon lets the jackets fall to floor next to him. He hesitates before bowing down to lift him higher. He’s tired of hurting his partner with every move he makes and it won’t end until he gets him to lie still, which won’t be so easy knowing Illya. Even in the shape he’s in, he is probably going to refuse to simply lie down and wait until everything is over, unless Napoleon physically restrains him. 

Now that he thinks of it, that might not be such a bad idea after all. 

He crouches down next to his partner and sneaks an arm around his back, careful of his shoulders. “On three, Peril.”

At a short nod from Illya, Napoleon counts slowly before he pushes Illya’s upper body away from the wall. Before Illya can react, Napoleon quickly slips between him and the wall and slides to the floor, leaving Illya to sit between his legs. 

Napoleon leans back, pulling Illya gently with him and draping an arm over his chest, effectively holding him in place. He still feels ice cold, their wet clothes not helping that. His partner doesn’t resist as Napoleon grabs the jackets and spreads them out over Illya, one over his torso, the other over his legs.

“What are you doing, Cowboy?”

“Combining body heat.”

He can’t suppress a slight smirk. “Although I’m not sure that is the right word for this if one participant has nothing left to contribute.”

Illya lets out a quiet snort interrupted by a shiver.

The first one is followed by another one, until Illya is shaking like a leaf. Rationally Napoleon knows that this is a good sign, he can’t help but wince in sympathy. Coming back from the brink of freezing is definitely more than unpleasant. He wonders how long they planned to keep him there, how long he was already chained up. 

Napoleon reaches up and runs his fingers through Illya’s hair as the shaking intensifies. There is nothing else he can do but to wait it out with him and hope they get out of here fast. It takes a while for the shivers to subside, leaving Illya exhausted and slumped against him. Napoleon keeps running his fingers through Illya’s hair even after. 

“Did they let you sleep?”

The hum he gets in return is rather uninformative, but what else would have been the purpose of the irregular shocks.

“Rest a bit. Backup is already on the way. We just have to wait for them to pick us up.”

He is sure that Illya struggles to stay awake anyway, but he can feel his body gradually relax against him until he goes limp. As Illya’s breathing evens out, Napoleon finally manages to relax. Illya is alive and the proof is currently sleeping in his arms. Before Napoleon really thinks about it, he presses his lips on Illya’s head in a light kiss. 

As long as Illya is out, someone has to take his place after all. A little caring won't hurt.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think or find me on [Tumblr](http://deducitetemporacarmen.tumblr.com/) :)


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